The Greatest Murder Mysteries of Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Mary Elizabeth BraddonЧитать онлайн книгу.
as Marquis de Cevennes. Now, what I have to say is this: if you wish to quarrel with any one, quarrel with the Corsican person; for if he had never signed his abdication at Fontainebleau (which he did, by the bye, in a most melodramatic manner—I am acquainted with some weak-minded people who cannot read the description of that event without shedding tears), I should never have deserted my poor little English wife.”
“The Marquis de Cevennes could not, then, ratify the marriage of the obscure teacher of French and mathematics?” asked Raymond.
“If the Marquis de Cevennes had been a rich man, he might have done so; but the Restoration, which gave me back my title, and the only château (my ancestors had three) which the Jacobins had not burned to the ground, did not restore me the fortune which the Revolution had devoured. I was a poor man. Only one course was open to me—a rich marriage. The wealthy widow of a Buonapartist general beheld and admired your humble servant, and the doom of my poor little wife was sealed. For many years I sent money regularly to her old mother—an awful woman, who knew my secret. She had, therefore, no occasion to starve, Monsieur de Marolles. And now, may I be permitted to ask what interest you have in this affair, that you should insist on recalling these very disagreeable circumstances at this particular moment?”
“There is one question you do not ask, Monsieur le Marquis.”
“Indeed; and what is that?” asked the Marquis.
“You seem to have very little curiosity about the fate of your surviving son.”
“I seem to have very little curiosity, my young friend; I have very little curiosity. I dare say he is a very worthy individual; but I have no anxiety whatever about his fate; for if he at all resembles his father, there is very little doubt that he has taken every care of himself. The De Cevennes have always taken care of themselves; it is a family trait.”
“He has proved himself worthy of that family, then. He was thrown into a river, but he did not sink; he was put into a workhouse and brought up as a pauper, but by the force of his own will and the help of his own brain he extricated himself, and won his way in the world. He became, what his father was before him, a teacher in a school. He grew tired of that, as his father did, and left England for Paris. In Paris, like his father before him, he married a woman he did not love for the sake of her fortune. He became master of that fortune, and till this very day he has surmounted every obstacle and triumphed over every difficulty. Your only son, Monsieur de Cevennes—the son whose mother you deserted—the son whom you abandoned to starve, steal, drown, or hang, to beg in the streets, die in a gutter, a workhouse, or a prison—has lived through all, to stand face to face with you this day, and to tell you that for his own and for his mother’s wrongs, with all the strength of a soul which those wrongs have steeped in wickedness—he hates you!”
“Don’t be violent,” said the Marquis, gently. “So, you are my son? Upon my word I thought all along you were something of that kind, for you are such a consummate villain.”
For the first time in his life Raymond de Marolles feels what it is to be beaten by his own weapons. Against the sang froid of the Marquis the torrent of his passionate words dashes, as the sea dashes at the foot of a rock, and makes as little impression.
“And what then?” says the Marquis. “Since it appears you are my son, what then?”
“You must save me, monsieur,” said Raymond, in a hoarse voice.
“Save you? But, my worthy friend, how save you? Save you from the cab and handcuffs? If I go out to those people and say, ‘He is my son; be so good as to forego the cab and handcuffs,’ they will laugh at me. They are so dreadfully matter-of-fact, that sort of people. What is to be done?”
“Only this, monsieur. I must make my escape from this apartment. That window looks into the garden, from the garden to the mews, through the mews into a retired street, and thence——”
“Never mind that, if you get there. I really doubt the possibility of your getting there. There is a policeman watching in that garden.”
Raymond smiles. He is recovering his presence of mind in the necessity for action. He opens a drawer in the library table and takes out an air-pistol, which looks rather like some elegant toy than a deadly weapon.
“I must shoot that man,” he says.
“Then I give the alarm. I will not be implicated in a murder. Good Heavens! the Marquis de Cevennes implicated in a murder! Why, it would be talked of in Paris for a month.”
“There will be no murder, monsieur. I shall fire at that man from this window and hit him in the knee. He will fall, and most likely faint from the pain, and will not, therefore, know whether I pass through the garden or not. You will give the alarm, and tell the men without that I have escaped through this window and the door in the wall yonder. They will pursue me in that direction, while I——”
“You will do what?”
“Go out at the front door as a gentleman should. I was not unprepared for such an event as this. Every room in this house has a secret communication with the next room. There is only one door in this library, as it seems, and they are carefully watching that.”
As he speaks he softly opens the window and fires at the man in the garden, who falls, only uttering a groan. As Raymond predicted, he faints with the pain.
With the rapidity of lightning he flings the window up violently, hurls the pistol to the farthest extremity of the garden, snatches the Marquis’s hat from the chair on which it lies, presses one finger on the gilded back of a volume of Gibbon’s Rome, a narrow slip of the bookcase opens inwards, and reveals a door leading into the next apartment, which is the dining-room. This door is made on a peculiar principle, and, as he pushes through, it closes behind him.
This is the work of a second; and as the officers, alarmed by the sound of the opening of the window, rush into the room, the Marquis gives the alarm. “He has escaped by the window!” he said. “He has wounded your assistant, and passed through that door. He cannot be twenty yards in advance; you will easily know him by his having no hat on.”
“Stop!” cries the detective officer, “this may be a trap. He may have got round to the front door. Go and watch, Johnson.”
A little too late this precaution. As the officers rushed into the library, Raymond passed from the dining-room door out of the open street-door, and jumped into the very cab which was waiting to take him to prison. “Five pounds, if you catch the Liverpool Express,” he said to the cabman.
“All right, sir,” replied that worthy citizen, with a wink. “I’ve druv a many gents like you, and very good fares they is too, and a godsend to a hard-working man, what old ladies with hand-bags and umbrellas grudges eightpence a mile to,” mutters the charioteer, as he gallops down Upper Brook Street and across Hanover Square, while the gentlemen of the police force, aided by Dr. Tappenden and the obliging Marquis, search the mews and neighbourhood adjoining. Strange to say, they cannot obtain any information from the coachman and stable-boys concerning a gentleman without a hat, who must have passed through the mews about three minutes before.
Chapter III
The Left-Handed Smasher Makes His Mark
“It is a palpable and humiliating proof of the decadence of the glories of white-cliffed Albion and her lion-hearted children,” said the sporting correspondent of the Liverpool Bold Speaker and Threepenny Aristides—a gentleman who, by the bye, was very clever at naming—for half-a-dozen stamps—the horses that didn’t win; and was, indeed, useful to fancy betters, as affording accurate information what to avoid; nothing being better policy than to give the odds against any horse named by him as a sure winner, or a safe second: for those gallant steeds were sure to be, whatever the fluctuating fortune of the race, ignominiously nowhere. “It is,” continued the Liverpool B. S.,